


Our Angels

by R_Credence_Hannibal



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alfred is MIA, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arkham Asylum, Banter, Batjokes, Batmobile, Bonding, Bottom Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Character Study, Could Be Interpreted That Way, Declarations Of Love, Demisexual Bruce Wayne?, Demisexuality, Dimension Travel, Emotionally Repressed, First Love, First Time, Gay, Gay Sex, Gotham City - Freeform, Gotham City Police Department, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, How Do I Tag, Hurt Bruce Wayne, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm tired of tagging, Identity Issues, Jim Gordon is Bruce's REAL mentor, Loneliness, Long-Suffering Jim Gordon, Loss of Virginity, Love, Love at First Sight, Love/Hate, M/M, Male Slash, Minor Violence, Nervousness, Non-Explicit Sex, One Shot, Past Relationship(s), Past Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Plot, Protective Bruce Wayne, Rating: M, Sad with a Happy Ending, Second Chances, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Self-Esteem Issues, Smoking, Some Humor, The Cure, Wayne Manor, Young Bruce Wayne, Young Joker/Bruce Wayne, top joker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-16 10:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19315999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Credence_Hannibal/pseuds/R_Credence_Hannibal
Summary: A serum is in his hands.Bruce Wayne is at a standstill. He cannot fully know the consequences of his actions and yet, unusually, that does not scare him. He knows that, whatever the results, they must be better than the constant.





	Our Angels

        A serum is in his hands. It’s in a vial and it’s a dull brownish color. The smell is revolting and Bruce decides to keep it closed as such. Bruce Wayne is at a standstill. He cannot fully know the consequences of his actions and yet, unusually, that does not scare him. He knows that, whatever the results, they must be better than the constant. He didn’t create this serum. Another Batman from another earth gave it to him. He claimed it worked like a charm. He had a powerful posture, a stark contrast to the man Bruce has become. That same Batman also had an irritating smile, a gentle kind one from years of unshared bliss. One that made Bruce envious. He inspected the vial and placed it in his utility belt. The easy part is finding him, the hard part is injecting him. He touches up the eyeliner beneath his cowl and slips it back over his face. He takes the Batmobile and drives until he arrives at Arkham.

 

        Its walls still hold up; Bruce isn’t sure how they still do. Each gargoyle, that protects from the pillars and rooftop, has a different face. Most of their faces can be boiled down to sadness or anger. He briefly wonders whether or not the gargoyles can see him and, if they do, what they must think of him. But angels are not real, but gargoyles do not think and Bruce feels stupid that he must remind himself of such things. When he was a child, Bruce would watch the shadows that moved across his ceiling and imagined if he was a shadow. He’d think of all of the places he’d go and all of the things he’d see. Bruce has seen enough of the world and he’s very tired of it. He’s tired of seeing new things because everything that is new is violent. He’s done with that kind of view. He’s been there for a very long time and he thinks it is best to leave it behind him. Yet even as his correctional, _rational_ mind guides his eyes to them, he wishes he could hear their thoughts. He wonders if anyone will notice the difference in his step or the tightness of his stance. He’s thinking that his idea might work and that scares Bruce most of all. But, Bruce has always been scared. He walks to the gates, as he always does, and no one stops him.

 

* * *

 

 

_Bruce was at the age where most of his peers could barely comprehend anything. He graduated early and attended college. He earned a master’s degree in criminal science and forensic science. Bruce trained with the best among men, all across the world. He had perfected his technique and he created a costume. The costume was of black, gray, and gold. The bat arrived to him in the night and, as such, he modified the suit. He created gadgets and weapons. He started out with the smaller things, purse snatchers and the like. He walked with confidence and pride. It was a temporary weakness. In the daytime, he spent his day managing his father’s business. He wore cocky smiles and fake laughter there. He hid behind a mask in the night as well. It was one that he felt strong in. It was one that he could be strong in. When he took that one off, he traded it off for another. The real Bruce Wayne was someone he didn’t like to see or let himself be very often, if at all. He was only twenty-two._

 

_He never had friends. His school days were hazed by his parents, who seemed to follow him in every corridor and every room. They consumed him and shook him of his normalcy; they replaced it with a drive for justice and revenge. Revenge on someone who was already dead, found in a back alley behind a restaurant due to an accidental overdose. Bruce instead dedicated all of his time to his studies and his demons. They told him that this was the way to avenge his parents. They fed him the bad memories with consistency. He took them in with grief and torment and he listened, even when his teachers told him not to. The speed of which school passed was much too slow for Bruce but, when it was finally over, he rejoiced. It was then he went to the League of Assassins first, where Ra's Al Ghul had taught him. The other instructors were not nearly as memorable. When he returned from his training, he was hardened. Or he assumed himself to be. He was still young and he was still learning. He still had yet to experience many things in his life. He had no knowledge of the things that others knew well by now._

 

_He was still a virgin. He didn’t think much about it. It hadn’t been important and many told him that his abstinence would help his fighting technique. Bruce never imagined that it would factor one way or another. It hadn’t mattered and he figured, it never would. Then, it was as if there was a violent, bright riot within him, one that would change everything; that riot all stemmed from one chance encounter. Bruce had been investigating a case, out of his suit. He was surveying the city’s poorest district. In his observation of it, he saw many things. The list reached the floor by the end of the day but nowhere on that list did he see what he saw at the intercity bar. It was seedy and he dressed as such. He hid his identity here. It was quite easy; he played his cards well and, if no one expected to see Bruce here, he wouldn’t be. The stage was small and the curtains were a strange purple. From behind them, he emerged. On the surface, the man didn’t quite look very remarkable. He had warm skin, with many beauty marks and moles, and dark, wet hair. But, his eyes, Bruce couldn’t take his gaze off of. They were a marvelous kind of hazel that Bruce had never really seen. His stance on the stage was nervous and he took the mic in both of his hands, as if it were foreign to him._

 

_“Hi” — he paused and looked out into the crowd — “how’s everyone doing tonight?” The small crowd murmured but, among them, no one answered him. The man laughed again and Bruce smirked at him. Bruce was charmed by him, even if he was supposed to be watching for a drug dealer. It made the mission more tolerable. He wanted to forget the mission entirely but he silenced that voice and continued as followed, eyeing the door and ignoring the hazel-eyed comedian. By the time he had caught the intel he needed (for which the dealer had cautiously not arrived), the comedian was gone. Bruce looked around the club for the man and quickly spotted him leaving through the back entrance. He chased after him, rather effortlessly as he braced for the heavy rain pour. Bruce paused to stare at him. He wore a brown leather trench coat and a black boater hat. He was standing in place and shivering as he did. He tilted his head in Bruce’s direction only when he heard the door shut behind him. Then, he fully turned to Bruce with a strange expression. He had tears on his face, displayed clearly from the rest of his dry, protected face. “Who are you?” he asked. Bruce saw his eyes, wide and fearful. He swore if he stared at them longer, they would begin to shine. The man wiped away at his tears instinctively._

 

_“Bruce Wayne,” he answered. The name, and his cover, left him as soon as he had dawned them. Bruce was unsure why he did this but it seemed there was no going back. He held out his hand and the man stared at it incredulously. He looked up back at Bruce and then began to laugh. He laughed harder and longer than Bruce expected, bending his knees and removing his hat in the process. His hair, which has been wet with gel before, was now wet with the rain. He did not anticipate the reaction so Bruce lowered his hand slightly. But the man seemed to notice just in time to take his hand in his own, still laughing._

 

_“I’m Joe,” he said, in between wheezes of laughter. His grip was strong. “Joe Napier.” Bruce smiled, an action that felt rather foreign against his lips. Joe did not comment on it. “You know, I think the world has really done a number on me tonight.” Bruce quirked up his eyebrow. “I’m assuming you’re here to tell me you hated my show?” Joe’s wet strands of dark hair began to stick to his forehead. Bruce noticed how his smile seemed to be rather infectious. Bruce, who’s disguise had faded quickly with the rain, discarded his fake beard and wiped away at his corrective makeup. He was wearing a black trench coat, with a black ivy cap to match. He wore eye contacts that itched at his eyes relentlessly. He longed to take them out of his eyes. Joe inspected him and huffed briefly. “So you really are Bruce Wayne then?” Joe asked. Bruce nodded quietly. That only seemed to make Joe more curious. “Are you not a talker?”_

 

_“Not usually,” Bruce replied. Joe hummed in response. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t really able to watch your show. I was—“_

 

_“Preoccupied?” Joe interrupted. Bruce didn’t speak to confirm it. “I figured. You couldn’t keep your eyes away from the door. Were you looking for someone?” He asked the question but seemed uninterested in a response._

 

_“Yeah,” he spoke. “Something like that.” Joe nodded and the ambient sound of rain engulfed them both as they stared at each other. It was a brief moment of silence but a needed moment of tranquility. It was within it that Bruce felt some kind of bond was being formed. It was something he had never really felt before. He had not felt it since his parents had died all those years ago. It was hypnotic, strange, exciting, and nervewracking all at once. The rain only made the impact more earth-shattering. Joe was the one to break the silence._

 

_“Why are you here? Why are you… talking to me?” asked Joe. Bruce didn’t know the answer to that and it only made it all seem more strange. It was as if there was some unseen force guiding Bruce, like a puppet. He wasn’t sure but, if there was any reason at all that Bruce could point to, he would have to use it. There was one thing and Bruce, despite how embarrassed he felt admitting it, ran with it._

 

_“I saw you up there and, I don’t know why or how, but it felt like you were… important, somehow,” Bruce admitted. He smiled politely but quickly let it fade when Joe Napier did not return the smile. He narrowed his hazel eyes at Bruce with reinvigorated scorn. Behind him, Bruce spotted another man entering the alleyway. He was merely a figure, shrouded in shadow and rain. But, even in his silhouette form, Bruce could still identify a camera when he saw one. He watched from afar and seemed to still at the sight of Bruce Wayne’s gaze._

_“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling buddy but it sure ain’t me—“ Bruce walked past Joe, calling out to the mysterious figure._

_“I don’t know who you are,” Bruce started. “But you’re not going to get very far if you don’t start running now.” The cameraman did not even get a flash before he began to stumble out of the alleyway. He watched him run in brief amusement. Bruce knew how to deliver threats. It was one of his many talents. Joe snickered as Bruce turned back to him. Bruce took the chance to convince him. “I know I seem crazy. I get that. But, I don’t think it’s crazy to want to talk to you.” Bruce fished out a business card from his coat pocket and, with a barely passable pen, wrote his personal phone number on the back of the card. When offered the card, Joe took it slowly, examining it with a bizarre fascination. “Call me.” Bruce Wayne walked off that night and Joe watched him intently as he did. It had been a bad night that ended somewhat okay. He wasn’t sure whether or not he should be shocked or horrified; Joe found himself at a pleasant in between. It wasn’t long before Bruce received the phone call._

 

* * *

Within its entrance, Bruce looks at the facility in the very same light at his own home. The mansion, which had never comforted him, feels just as unnerving as the intimidating Arkham Asylum. Its very gates are meant to strike fear into any and all those who arrive there, by free will or not. It does its job well. Most here stay here. Most here die here. He wonders if Wayne Manor is rather the same. All those that stay at the mansion wither away slowly. But no one has died there. Bruce has made sure of it. He stares at the dying garden, its bushes welting away into brown crinkly pieces of what they once were. The flowers never sprout because all of the life on the grounds never sprouts. As such, not even Poison Ivy can regenerate anything from the land. Bruce stares at the doors of Arkham. They are not so menacing; it took many times to not feel dread at the very sight of them. But, Bruce does not feel fear at them anymore, as intended. They’re small in comparison to the large scale of the facility. Its Victorian architecture remains intact, something decided on a city bill no one voted for long ago.

 

He walks up the uneven steps, memorizing each crack in the stone beneath his feet. Each crack holds a memory of someone being taken in. Each indent is a reminder of the time that Bruce has wasted. Each step is a sign that Bruce is getting closer to what he hates and fears the most: pain. Despite his consistent engagement with pain, he struggles to understand why he must be put through each trial and tribulation. He opens the door with a steady hand. The real angel greets him as a statue in the middle of the entrance desks. It’s a womanly figure, with a robe and hood. It separates them and Bruce, more often than not, chooses to go to the right desk. This day is not like any other day; he walks to the left desk and the woman behind the plastic window rings him in without a moments notice. He walks through the scanner and it does not set off the alarms. He walks by each and every one of the inmates, receiving every kind of bark imaginable from them. Some mock him, some cower from him, some do not give him either. Bruce closes his eyes briefly as he makes his way to solitary confinement.

 

* * *

 

 

_It was a pleasant afternoon, the skyline hued with oranges as the sun drifted away. It was a rare moment of beauty for his city, but it was the ones that Bruce counted the most. There was a knock upon his door, to which Bruce opened himself. Alfred had retired to bed that night, as per Bruce’s orders. He opened the door to Napier who seemed to be lost for words. He was staring at one of the gargoyles that watched over the grounds. Bruce liked to think of them as guardians, angels in the form of ugly beasts, always watching. Bruce was never a religious man but the gargoyles seemed to pass the very concept itself. He watched Joe’s face look back to him briefly before Bruce stepped to his side to join him at looking at the gargoyles. He wasn’t sure what allured him so much about them. He wasn’t sure why he stood next to him, admiring them as well. It seemed to be the appropriate response. It was the polite response. But Bruce had never been one for formalities. It wasn’t in his nature, his true nature. Joe's hazel eyes glimmered with the orange sky._

 

_“What are gargoyles, Bruce Wayne?” asked Joe distantly. He seemed to be fully entranced by them now. Bruce could not help but stare at Joe, struck by some unknown force once more, compelling him to answer truthfully. Bizarrely, this force did not alarm Bruce as it should. It was a sign of something important and he took a hold of it as much as he could. He would not lose this feeling as he once did._

_“Gargoyles,” he started. “They are our protectors. They are our… angels.” It was a solemn answer, an answer that seemed to take Joe out of his fixated focus. He shifted it onto Bruce who had been staring at him for seemingly longer than he had with anyone. “Come inside, it’s getting cold.” Joe nodded silently as Bruce led him inside the mansion. Outside, the sunset faded to a tone of blue and gray. Joe seemed, once again, fascinated by his surroundings. The main entrance, the grand staircase being the centerpiece of the room, was lit by a glowing chandelier and decorated to the brim with expensive riches for all to behold. It seemed to catch his breath. Bruce did not emulate this reaction. He had lived here, with the same riches and grandness and it only made him uncomfortable. It was a sign of greed, not of humility, and it caused him no joy to keep it this way. But, in order to maintain his act of chivalry and his billionaire son persona, he had to maintain it. He quietly gritted his teeth at the display._

_“I don’t think I have ever been in a room with this much money,” he spoke finally. Bruce smirked at the sight of whimsy on Joe's face. He looked all around, at every single tiny embellishment, as if it were some godly status. Bruce disliked the impression it gave. Bruce shifted his attention to himself by walking towards the dining room. Joe followed him slowly, taking the room in one last time before entering another._

_“I don’t like any of it,” Bruce said quietly. He stood in front of the dining table, which had a darker color scheme. Across all the darkly patterned wallpaper were framed family photographs and portraits. Above the grand chair, a deep mahogany color, was the most important photo in the room. In it, he was still a child, a few years before the murder occurred. His parents smiled back at him permanently, their faces forever captured in color. He stared at the picture with a bitter kind of sorrow. It was the kind that never went away, always fueling his anger and his reason._

_“You… don’t like it?” Joe questioned. Bruce turned his neck back to him briefly to recognize him. His eyes spotted the family photo and a visible acknowledgment could be seen on his face. He took it in and processed it just as quickly. Bruce wished–– longed –– to be in those shoes, unable to care too deeply about what had happened. But, Joe didn’t do exactly what Bruce had expected. Everyone else gave a courteous nod and praised his parents’ giving nature. Joe simply stared at the picture, as if it intimidated him. He stared at it until he shifted focus back onto Bruce; he spoke nothing of it. Bruce couldn’t be more appreciative of the action._

_“No, I don’t. I don’t need any of this. It is better for it to be someone else’s.” Joe nodded his head slightly to Bruce’s words. He watched carefully as Bruce seemed to linger at the grand chair. It had been the chair his father always sat in. When he was younger, not long after the murder, Bruce would sit across from the chair and stare at it. It would forever remain empty and hallow, just the way Bruce wanted it to be. He never wanted their memory to be lost or, worse yet, replaced. Alfred had agreed to take full responsibility of him then, a choice he never seemed to regret no matter how much grief it caused him._

_“But all this legacy, your family,” he said. “I suppose it doesn’t comfort you then?” Bruce answered by not speaking at all. Joe waited for Bruce to speak and when he didn’t take the chance to ask more questions, he kept asking more questions. “Why did you bring me here? Why are you so interested in me? I’m sorry if I am missing something but I just don’t get it.” Bruce turned his body to Joe._

_“I- I like your eyes,” Bruce spoke. As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt stupider than he had in his whole life. Joe was quiet… until he wasn’t. He burst into hysterical laughter, the kind so loud that Bruce suspected it would echo through the mansion for days. Bruce quickly made an effort to silence his guest, in the fear that Alfred might be awoken. Joe did not prevent it from happening, letting Bruce cover his mouth. His laughter, however, did not die down. “Cut it out, we’re not alone,” Bruce whispered harshly. His laughter faded a bit, decreasing in volume but continuing nonetheless._

_“Oh, oh my god,” he wheezed out in between laughs. Bruce rushed him to the farthest room from Alfred’s quarters. “N-no one told me you’d be a funny one, Bruce Wayne!” Bruce cringed as he shut the door behind them in the long living room. Two large windows displayed the night sky well, casting a dim glow from the full moon inside the room. The floor was burgundy wood, covered by massive Persian rugs. He sat Joe down on one of the luxury sofas. It was a dark red velvet that had been there since before he was born. His father’s mother had commissioned it at a great price and inconvenience. It was yet another reminder of things he did not wish to encourage. Bruce sat down next to him, attempting to ignore the cackling mess that Joe had become. Once his laughter completely died down, Joe wiped away at the tears in his eyes. Bruce patiently awaited his next question, which he knew could never even rival the embarrassment he had just experienced. Outside, Bruce could hear rain starting to pour once more in Gotham. It did not surprise him in the least. Joe seemed to be completely settled now, as well as quiet. He was staring at Bruce as he did everything in his power to look straight ahead. “You weren’t joking, were you?” Bruce didn’t answer. “Well, shit. I just ruined my chance, didn’t I?” He spoke it more to himself than to Bruce. It was as if he was disappointed._

_“Chance of what?” Bruce asked. Joe snorted and rolled his eyes._

_“Don’t play dumb with me now, you know what I mean,” Joe said. There was an anxious speed to his voice. Then, Bruce realized he was putting on a facade; he was trying to look more confident than he was. The nervousness gave it all away. Bruce stayed silent once more. The more he sat and thought, the more he regretted ever letting this man into the mansion. Bruce was naive, stupid, and had just learned that he didn’t really understand his own actions; he would not make the same mistake again. He had tricked someone he didn’t know into something he wasn’t even clear with himself about. But, he remained seated and so did Joe. “The question is… do you still want to?” He leaned closer and Bruce remained unfazed by the action. He understood the implication but continued his stern expression, directed at the grandfather clock across the room._

_“I don’t –– that’s not what I meant,” Bruce spoke. “I want to talk to you.” Joe sighed and backed away from Bruce. There was a pause in their conversation. Then, it was broken._

_“And why is that?” Joe asked again. “Why me?” His tone was quiet and self-conscious, as if he didn’t really care to hear the answer. It took a while before Bruce could answer fully, before he could fully complete his thoughts._

_“All my life, I’ve felt… alone. Disconnected from everybody else. I don’t know exactly what it was, but… I was drawn to you and if that doesn’t mean anything to you, so be it.” It was foreign, the words that escaped his mouth. He could feel his nerves kicking him. He didn’t like the feeling of being vulnerable and he hadn’t expected to feel that way when he had opened the door. But, it wasn't unexpected either. It was a strange dilemma. The light cast the room in tones of blue and Bruce watched as the clock ticked; the noise usually gave him white noise to contemplate his thoughts. But, Bruce was distracted. He was awaiting the answer. An answer to years of self-hatred and bitterness that he had accumulated to be acknowledged. He knew it was wrong to dump all his problems on a stranger. But, it also made it that much easier. He could be trusted as no one would believe him. Unless that photographer had captured something._

_“I get it,” said Joe. Bruce looked back to him finally. “More than you know.” Joe smiled faintly at Bruce and he returned the favor; it was a bizarre feeling, an action he had never performed subconsciously since he was a child. “I’m an orphan too, I was in foster care since I was a baby.” Bruce’s interest increased. Joe moved his hand closer to Bruce’s on the couch. “It’s lonely but… what’s the other option? I can’t do anything about it. It’s better to try and move past it.” Bruce listened but couldn’t comprehend the words. Everything seemed too raw and unrefined for him to talk. He needed an answer that no one would give him. He needed someone to tell him he was doing the right thing. But Joe couldn’t possibly know that. Joe furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Is that all you wanted from me?” Bruce sighed and raked a hand through his hair._

_“I don’t know,” Bruce answered. It was truthful and above all else, Bruce believed in honesty. Joe nodded his head, as if disappointed by the situation. Bruce reacted quickly in response. “But… I know I don’t want to be alone.” It was begging and Bruce hated it more than anything. Joe didn’t seem as repulsed as Bruce expected him to be. Instead, he touched the tips of his fingers to Bruce’s. Bruce looked to his hand nervously; it surprised him but he did not flinch from the contact. He had a tendency to do so with the more intimate touches since he was young. Joe looked equally as unsettled with the contact. Their eyes met each other's and Bruce did not look away; neither did Joe._

_“What happens next?” Joe asked. Bruce moved his fingers over Joe’s. He heard Joe’s breath hitch at the movement. Bruce was taking a chance and it was scary. Scarier than anything he saw on the street. Scarier than anything he could see. But, it was worth the chance. It was worth it just to have a connection. Humility was something Bruce could feel himself become more and more distant from every day. Reality was not a concept he fully understood now. He needed something–– anything –– to ground him. He breathed in quietly and then he spoke._

_“Whatever you want.”_

 

* * *

 

The walk is long and, somehow, feels longer with the built-up tension. The inmates become white noise as he approaches his cell. He feels uncertainty within his bones. He can feel the vial in his belt, hyper-focused to the way the substance waves back and forth with his motion. He doesn’t like the feeling; it only reminds him that whatever he does could have lasting consequences. He’s taking a risk and he’s doing this because he knows he cannot take another year or decade of dealing with _Joker_. The way he moves, the way he smiles, the way he laughs, the way he does anything… it all drives the stake deeper. He has tolerated it all of it until now. He isn’t quite sure why but he knows the pain of his fighting and his guilt isn’t because his parents are dead. That rarely drifts into his thoughts anymore. His guilt is centered on one man and, more than anything, it worsens with time. The walls of Arkham, and their special cells for their special inmates, makes Bruce feel cornered. But now, more than ever, Bruce feels cornered by the overwhelming sense of deja vu he feels here. He’s come to this very same cell so many different times. Each one for similar reasons: there is a plot to destroy Gotham, there is a new villain, there is a new syndicate. None of them ever vary from that. Gordon and the staff all believe it when he storms in and demands for knowledge from Joker. But, Bruce and Joker know that is not why he is really there.

 

He isn’t here now because he needs information. He has no lie to tell, not anymore. Bruce has grown tired of telling lies that nobody needs to hear. They will assume the best of him because he’s “The Batman” and “he is our savior”. The sentiment used to mean something to him; now, it means nothing. He does not feel like a hero. He hasn’t felt like a hero for a very long time. There is little justice in what he does for Gotham. He has managed to trick the city into believing such. He watches over Gotham and sometimes he captures villains and sometimes he lets them go. He never cleanses the plague and he never maintains the storm. Gordon tells him that he believes in him and that only makes Bruce feel more guilty. He walks to the door and stares at the observation room that he usually enters through. He doesn’t hesitate about opening the door. He walks into the dimly lit area. A single lightbulb hangs from the wall and it sways lightly. The walls are cement, stained with blood from previous encounters. A woman is observing _him_ through the one-sided glass. She has wide doe-like blue eyes, with medium length blond hair. She reminds Bruce of Harley, but there are a few key differences that stand out to Bruce. For one, her gaze isn’t obsessive; it’s more comparable to guilt. She isn’t wearing a doctor’s coat, which only seeks to irritate Bruce. Her arms are crossed and she holds a keycard in one of her hands, her other hand twirling her hair nervously. She isn’t looking at Batman because she is preoccupied with the Joker.

 

“Who are you?” demands Bruce. His voice is gravelly and strict. She turns her head to him and she meets his white eyes with seemingly no motive. She is looking for something but she isn’t finding it.

 

“Jeannie… um––“ she stumbles. She looks back to Joker and then back at Bruce, visibly startled. “I’ll leave now if you need to––“

 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. She uncrosses her arms and places them to her sides in a strangely mechanical motion.

 

“I don’t–– I guess I used to be his girlfriend?” Bruce doesn’t flinch. He has seen many of her kind before and they do not faze him. But, oddly enough, this one doesn’t seem as attached as his previous lovers had been. “It was before he… fell.” It is with those words that his view changes. He remembers her, as briefly mentioned as she was. Bruce nods and turns to glass with the same blank expression he always wore. “We broke up long before he did though… I don’t–– I’m not here for anything really…” she trails off. She is rambling and he knows that it is because he is here; the Batman often invokes this trembling mess in people. He has seen it many times before. It doesn't affect him as it used to. It used to be fun and exhilarating. Now, it only makes him feel ill. Bruce stares as the Joker faces the wall. He is sitting in the middle of the white room, his straight jacket restraining him somewhat effectively. “I guess I just wanted to see if he was real––“

 

“He is,” Bruce speaks. His tone could command a room, if there were anyone else in the room to command. He's on a time limit and her presence does not help him.  “How did you get in here?” The question doesn’t really plague him that much. The staff employed at Arkham have always been incompetent and it doesn’t surprise him that she would be able to steal a keycard so easily.

 

“I, um–– I stole it from my husband… he isn’t working today.” She mutters the last part of her sentence. Bruce doesn’t ask any more questions. She seems to understand the tension in the room and makes for her exit, hasty and distracted. Bruce takes her by the upper arm and holds her in place. She stills underneath his grip, weak and fearful. He looks at her and she looks at him with wide eyes. Bruce doesn’t respond to her emotion.

 

“Did he love you?” He asks it so quietly that it could very well go unheard. But Jeannie is listening and she hears him. It almost makes Bruce feel more pathetic. Almost.

 

“I don’t–– I think he did. But, it just... didn’t last. Nothing ever lasts.” Bruce stares at her, searching for the lie; when he doesn’t find one, he lets go of his grip around her arm and she rubs her arm almost instinctually. She looks confused and annoyed at the same time but Bruce lets her leave without another word. He looks as she leaves through the door and rushes out of the observation room. Joker turns his head in the direction of the glass and smiles. Bruce looks at him through the glass and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. He can feel the vial in his belt and his eyes flutter back open. Despite the effort, he still feels as if he hasn’t breathed in a century. He looks around the area for cameras and destroys each of them precisely. The Joker faces the glass now. His features are distinct, as always. He has toxically green hair and eerily white skin. His lips are a deep vibrant shade of red. His eyes… they are a ghostly blue. Yet, despite all of this, Bruce cannot help but see the things that remain intact. He empties the vial into a syringe and puts the vial and syringe back into his belt pocket.

 

* * *

 

_Joe leaned into his touch with a bit of humor to his expression. Bruce didn’t really know what he was doing and Joe, by the looks of it, wasn’t too sure either. Bruce was the first one to make contact. He stumbled into it, with a hesitant peck against Joe’s lips. Joe returned the favor with a little more vigor, leaving Bruce breathless. Joe moved on the couch and onto Bruce’s lap; the couch creaked beneath them as he moved. Bruce quietly dismissed the thought of Alfred finding them. If he did, then he would have the sense to stay away. Bruce hoped so anyway. It was slow and gradual and Bruce liked it that way. Joe sat with his thighs trapping Bruce in his position. He leaned down to kiss Bruce, his hands fumbling to take off Bruce’s shirt. Bruce learned to return that same passion within the following few minutes of their intimacy. Joe pulled away for a brief moment and fiddled with the buttons of his own shirt as he did. Bruce attempted to help, unbuttoning the lower buttons. Joe rumbled with soft laughter, the kind that only he could hear. Joe took his hands by the wrists and pulled them to his own face. A strand of Joe’s hair fell against his forehead. He stared at Bruce and Bruce stared back. There was a question on his tongue and Bruce wasn’t sure he wanted to answer it._

 

_“Have you ever done––“ Joe was cut off short._

 

_“No,” Bruce answered. “I haven’t.” Joe retracted slightly, with a hesitant emotion swimming in his eyes._

 

_“Are you sure about this? About me?” asked Joe. Bruce nodded almost immediately._

 

_“Yes,” he said. “I am.” Joe smiled against his hands. It was a smile Bruce promised himself to never forget. His hands fell from his face to land at his hips and Joe smiled as he undid his last button. He tore off his shirt in a quick motion. Bruce acknowledged his torso with amazement. His skin matched his face, littered with tiny beauty marks. He wasn’t too thin or too chubby. He was just in between both; he was normal. The women, and men, he saw at galas who would try to seduce him all were too thin. They were always striving for perfection. Bruce never liked perfection. It implied that the world was perfect, filled with only perfect people. That sentiment alone annoyed him more than anything. Joe took notice of his staring, pulled away a little, and smiled._

 

_“Like what you see?” he asked. Joe cringed visibly as he said it and Bruce smiled back at him._

 

_“Yes. You’re really beautiful,” Bruce muttered. Joe snorted at the comment, as if Bruce had said something wrong._

 

_“Yeah, sure I am” — he ran a hand through his hair with nervousness that Bruce caught onto — “just like the supermodels at your parties, right?”_

 

_“I don’t like models, they aren’t real.” He pointed at Joe’s chest, tracing a line down to his navel. “You’re real and you’re gorgeous.” Joe nodded slowly at that. Bruce leaned up for another kiss and found that Joe seemed a little distracted. He pulled back a little. “What? What is it?” Bruce asked quietly. Joe tapped his finger against Bruce’s thigh in a repetitive, anxious pattern._

 

_“I’ve never really— um, done it with a… guy,” he spoke. He avoided Bruce’s gaze at all costs. Bruce smiled faintly at him. “It’s just a little different... trying to get used to it.”_

 

_“That makes two of us,” Bruce whispered back. Joe softly chuckled, the vibrations sending shivers through Bruce’s skin. The air in the room was chilly, the warmth of their bodies alone providing a counter to it. “Whatever you want––“ Joe placed a finger on his lips and Bruce stopped talking._

 

_“I want a lot of things, Bruce Wayne. You’re no exception. But…” he started. “Just because I want those things doesn’t mean I can maintain them. I guess what I’m saying is I don’t–– I don’t want to be used.” Bruce stared at him and could feel the tension exuding from Joe. He was almost a different person entirely. At that moment, Joe Napier was himself; there were no jokes or nervous self-loathing to hide him. Bruce refrained from communicating his thoughts and continued to listen to Joe. “I had a girlfriend and she was going to have a baby but… things don’t always go as planned, you know? She left me and I–– I don’t want to be alone again.” Bruce nodded silently._

 

_“I won’t leave you. I don't leave anyone,” Bruce spoke. Joe grinned and Bruce did the same, albeit more fainter than Joe. He leaned back down and kissed Bruce. He took off Bruce’s shirt with ease and Bruce removed his lips briefly to switch positions. He grabbed Joe by his thighs and moved his body to lie beneath him on the couch. He felt the strong arousal begin to take over his senses. Joe didn’t mind this, fumbling with his belt buckle as Bruce latched onto his neck. He made a sound that Bruce had only ever heard in prostitute rings he infiltrated at night. Except this was very real. He continued, making a trail of kisses from his neck to just below his navel. He moved his body progressively down on the sofa as he did. He rose his head to look up at Joe. Their eyes met and Bruce felt chills go up his spine from the intensity of it. “Tell me if I need to stop.” Joe nodded but suddenly moved from within him. Bruce rose up from the couch only to be stopped by Joe. He kissed Bruce and placed his hands on his hips._

 

_“Can I” –– he planted a kiss and then moved his head for his lips to brush against Bruce’s ear –– “go next time?” His tone was lustful yet nervous and Bruce wasn’t sure if it made him more suggestive to the request. Either way, Bruce nodded absently and Joe got off the couch, stood up, and looked around the grand living room. “Somewhere more private?” Bruce stared a moment, grabbing their clothes from the edge of the couch and got up. He led Joe to a guest room on the same floor and, as soon as he locked the door behind them, Joe barged into his bathroom. The room was a renovated one, with a pale carpet color and modern wood paneled walls. In the corner, there was a dresser and by the side of the bed was a matching bedside table. Bruce breathed in deeply, as if catching his breath from the night’s events. He looked in drawers quickly and left it. “Do you have condoms?” he asked. Bruce thought about it and confirmed that he never had actually gone out of his way to buy them. He knew that people often left them behind at parties but he never kept them. Or at least he never thought he did. He went to the bedside table, flicked on the lamp, and opened the drawer. Inside, rather conveniently, there were five packs. Bruce snorted at the absurdity of it as Joe peered over his shoulder. “Found some?” Bruce grunted to respond and Joe laughed. “What?”_

 

_“If you were an invited guest, would you just leave your condoms here?” Bruce asked. Joe laughed even harder, collapsing onto the bed. Bruce ripped one off from the rest of the connected four and threw them back into the drawer. Bruce stared at it in his hands and processed a bit. If he knew anything about sex, he knew he wasn’t a woman, and therefore, needed more than just a condom. He rolled his eyes into the back of his head._

 

_“I mean–– me, personally, I don’t think I would,” he said. Bruce smiled to himself. “But then again, when you’re in the heat of the moment––“_

 

_“When you’re in the heat of the moment,” Bruce muttered to himself. “We need something else, not just condoms.” Joe lifted up from the bed, arching his back like a cat. He stood up from the bed and turned Bruce to face him. He was equal to Bruce in height but he was a very different body type than himself. Bruce was muscular and littered with scars on his back. He did not possess any beauty marks and his skin was significantly paler than Joe’s. He wasn’t self-conscious about it but he certainly was unsure of it being shown to someone else in such a vulnerable way. He hadn’t mentioned it so far but Bruce knew it was inevitable._

 

_“We’ll find something,” he muttered against Bruce’s skin. “Do you have any Vaseline?” Bruce nodded, thinking of the cave. In his med-kits, he supplied it occasionally. He knew some was in the bathroom so he shortly escaped Joe’s embrace and retrieved it from behind the mirror. When he returned Joe attempted to tackle him, with disastrous results. Joe fell to the floor and slowly began to laugh as he remained on the ground. Bruce smirked and held out a hand to him. He took it and gradually got up. “Maybe I should be the bottom!” he said through laughs. “I’m like a fly to you!” He stood in front of Bruce, only an inch of space between them._

 

_“No,” Bruce spoke quietly. “I don’t think anyone else would have the balls to do it but you.” It was muttered but seemed to make the room very silent. Joe’s face was blank for a few moments, afraid of whatever Bruce meant by that. Bruce quickly decided on clarification. “They think I’ll sue them.” Joe just nodded and stared at his lips. “Should I turn off the lights?” Joe nodded and Bruce stumbled towards the lamp. He laughed behind him as he turned it off and Bruce turned to him with a stern look._

 

_“How can a hulking guy like you be so goddamn dorky?” asked Joe. Bruce narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t give me that look,” he said humorously. Bruce approached him slowly, a lingering smirk on his lips. “Oh, no, no” –– he laughed as Bruce closed in on him and tackled him onto the bed –– “Oh god, I’ll be hurting all day tomorrow.” Bruce snorted in response._

 

_“Bit dramatic,” Bruce muttered. He hovered on top of Joe. Joe smirked and motioned for Bruce to switch positions. He did, allowing Joe to adjust._

 

_“Do you ever say anything loudly?” he asked Bruce cheekily. He placed his hands near his shoulders, hovering over Bruce. His body was between Bruce’s thighs and the very acknowledgment of that fact left Bruce a little speechless. “Guess not.” He hovered over him for a brief moment before kissing him once again. It felt strangely euphoric in the smaller, enclosed space. The lighting made the room dark but not entirely. A sliver of light peeked out through the bathroom door and cast them both in darker shades. He backed away from Bruce briefly to take off his own pants; Bruce took the cue and did the same. He climbed back onto Bruce and mimicked Bruce’s trail of kisses from before with more methodical timing. He worshipped Bruce’s body and the feeling was jarringly foreign to him. No one had ever treated him with care. If they had, it was an illusion. It was faked for a chance of fame or faked to be connected to the Bat. Bruce vaguely remembered how one of his teachers had attempted to seduce him with their daughter. He had not taken the bait, nor would he ever. Joe grasped for Bruce’s hand and Bruce gripped tighter as he pulled against the waistband of his underwear._

 

_Bruce quickly took note of every feeling in his body. It was predominantly a feeling of heat. It was not being on fire or sitting by a fire. It felt more instinctual than that. It felt as if his entire body had been made for it. The further Joe went, the more his body grew with tension. It was the good kind, a kind Bruce wasn’t entirely foreign to. Joe had started with his mouth, to which Bruce only squirmed a few times beneath him. But it was enough to cause that wicked grin to appear on Joe’s face. His smile was infectious and Bruce found himself falling into its trap rather frequently. Yet, when his lips were… preoccupied, his smile was warped in a way only Bruce could view. He sucked on Bruce until Bruce could feel the tension boil over within himself. It all crashed in a symphony of noises Bruce had never made in his life. It was embarrassing but Joe didn’t look at him with anything other than adoration. Joe remained a little longer, swallowing the contents Bruce had spilled into his mouth. Once he did, Joe eagerly guided Bruce to flip over. But Bruce was unsure whether or not he needed to wait or not. He was soft and he wondered if it mattered. He figured it would sort itself out; he proved to be correct. Joe used fingers first, one then two and so on. The feeling was invasive but as he kept going, by Bruce’s request, it became increasingly more pleasant. He was no longer soft. But, Bruce couldn’t be prepared for what came next. He heard the crinkle of the wrapper and the roll of the condom against his skin. None of this could prepare him though._

 

_“Are you sure about this, baby?” asked Joe. He leaned over and grabbed the container of Vaseline._

 

_“Yes,” Bruce murmured. His voice reverberated through the room and held a weight that Bruce didn’t fully understand. Joe nodded slowly, as if surprised that he wanted to continue._

 

_“Alright, well— I got to see you,” he spoke. It was a request but sounded more akin to a plea. Bruce gave into it, fully realizing that such intimacy was not something he could get away from or ignore. He switched positions once more and faced Joe directly. He kissed Bruce almost immediately. Joe pulled away and stared at Bruce with those hazel eyes. It was an intense gaze that Bruce matched. It was wordless but Bruce could feel the bond that ran between them solidify at that moment. It started very slow, the intrusion painful but manageable. Then, as he continued, his pain threshold became distracting. It didn’t help that Joe’s eyes seemed focused solely on the twitches of emotions on Bruce’s face. He couldn’t help but have trouble breathing. “Can I move?” Bruce nodded and the pain seemed to increase and then decrease as the movements became repetitive. Then, it was heaven. Whatever Joe kept touching within Bruce, it felt better than anything. He made a loud grunt in response to it and Joe paused. “Am I hurting you?”_

 

_“God— no, keep going.” His body responded as Joe continued and picked up speed; he leaned down and planted kisses all over Bruce. Bruce panted into Joe’s ear as Joe rested his head in the crook of Bruce’s neck. His pace gradually rose, the rhythm of sound and sensation taking over Bruce completely. Then, everything seemed on fire. He could feel the fire fill him and another fire about to burst. Joe panted and kissed his neck gently. Bruce writhed against him and Joe took quick work of it by use of his hand. He crawled back down and licked him clean, an action which felt inherently good. He wiped away the remaining drips on his chin with his hand, threw away the used condom in the bathroom, and climbed back up to Bruce. He laid on his side next to Bruce, smiling, and Bruce smiled faintly, a bit of confusion plaguing his mind. “What?”_

 

_“I think I like you a lot,” Joe spoke. His voice was hoarse and his eyes were glassy. “I’ve— I’ve never felt, well, special.” Bruce did not breath. “But you make me feel, like that... I haven’t really felt anything in a while.” Bruce was quiet, letting him readjust and lay beside him. Bruce turned to lay on his side. He faced Joe, arm raised to pull Joe a little closer. “Not to mention you’re a god in the sack.” Bruce raised an eyebrow, amused, and Joe rose both of his suggestively._

 

_“Is that so?” Bruce asked. Joe ran one of his hands through Bruce’s hair, twirling a strand of it._

 

_“I’m glad I was your first,” he said. “And yes, you’re probably the best sex I’ve ever had. How could you not be? You just have that—“_

 

_“That what?” Bruce asked. He was genuinely curious about it, despite the openness of the topic. But, Joe was just as open with him which made him feel better about the vulnerability. Joe’s smile became wider, his features melding accordingly. His dimples and wrinkles, something Bruce seemed to notice frequently along with his eyes, struck Bruce often with their personality._

 

_“You’re you,” he whispered. “You’re not pretending. I’m–– I’m rather good at reading people and I know when someone is lying to me, Bruce.” Chills went up Bruce’s spine. If what he said was true, then his other life would be even more under compromise. He tried to ignore the best he could. “You haven’t lied to me and I don’t think you ever will… you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met, Bruce Wayne.” He smiled at Jack, unprovoked, without notice of it on his features. He forgot about the city and its need for his protection. He forgot about the alleyway and his parents. He forgot about his name and his company. He forgot about being the Bat. He forgot about being Bruce Wayne. At that moment, special and unique, Bruce was himself. Joe, with great trepidation, seemed to silently agree with Bruce’s thoughts. There was nothing but them, Bruce and Joe. They laid together, in a blissful quiet, and fell asleep amongst the rest of the violent city miles behind them._

 

_When Bruce awoke, he found the bed empty, a note laying where Joe once slept. He picked up the note and read it aloud to himself, just to ensure that their night together had been real. The hoarseness of his voice and the pain of his backside were clear enough to Bruce that indeed, that had all occurred. But, regardless, he read it aloud to himself with a grin at the end. Below the formal note were his number and address listed in a distinct kind of scrawl that Bruce could barely make out._

 

_“‘Seems like I left you hanging but I just had some work to do. I’ll be back tomorrow, I swear it. If I don’t, you know where to find me. Yours, Joe’” Bruce smiled and put the note within the drawer of the bedside table._

 

* * *

 

“Batsy!” His voice rattles Bruce more than he wants it to. He finds the experience unpleasant but tolerable; on usual nights, it wouldn’t matter. On usual nights, he’d just ignore it. Tonight is no regular night and Bruce carries the weight of this reality in his belt. He closes his eyes and breaths in the air around him. The observation room smells rather like battery acid and Bruce inhales it like its perfume. He lives in the room and he knows, in the room he watches, he will die a little. Whenever he brings the Joker here, he dies a little. The process is inevitable, as well as the recycling of escape and chase and capture. He knows why he does it, he always has and he always will. He’ll never stop. It’s never been a debate or a choice for him. It’s always been and always will be. He must keep him intact, he must keep him alive. Even after the decades of horror the Joker has inflicted, Bruce still goes on. He knows the likelihood, he knows the chances are slim. They’ve never been high numbers. But, whatever chance he has is worth the risk. Whatever chance he has to pull Joe from within the chemical influence, he owes it to him to attempt. After all, it was _his_ fault in the end. “I know you’re here. I can smell your stench from miles away!” His laughter echoes in the room and reverberates through the speakers in a mechanical way. Bruce presses the intercom but does not lower himself to the microphone.

 

“Joker,” says Bruce. “Face the wall.” His commands are direct, precise enough to demand silence. But, Joker never is one for silence.

 

“Feisty today, are we?” Joker asks. His voice is an octave higher than it should be. It’s another element that Bruce has become accustomed to, despite his initial disdain for it. He let himself fall under the illusion, for a long time, that he was surveying and protecting the city for his parents' sake. But, after the third attempt at Gordon’s life occurred, Bruce had realized the truth of the matter. He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. Anyone could know; no one cares to ask. Bruce opens the locked door easily; he’s done it many times before and steps into the room with his eyes fixated on the Joker. His head is naturally to the side with his body against the padded walls. Bruce wishes that when he backed away from the wall, that it would leave makeup stains. He had often had dreams of such miracles occurring. Nothing ever came of them. “Not very chatty either. Did Gordon say something _mean_?” Bruce knows the Joker, just as he knew Joe. He knows that the Joker doesn’t pester with such questions unless he wants something. There are only ever two things Joker wants from Batman, a laugh or a story to tell. He is trying to pry something _interesting_ out of him and Bruce won’t let it work. “You just came for just for a visit then? How sweet of you! Truly, what a gentleman––“

 

“Shut up.” Joker pouts in an unrealistic way. Most of his expressions look that way. Bruce knows the over exaggerating is a part of the Joker. What is worse is it isn’t entirely his own characteristic. It’s part Joker and part someone Bruce is trying to separate. Throughout the years, he has tried to do this mentally with little success. He can still see the dimples and the smile. That smile, which can and often ensnares all of Gotham in an infectious fear, makes Bruce feel an indefinite numbness. This numbness never leaves him, lingering in every move he makes and every word he speaks. He walks to the center of the room. When he stops in place, he eyes all the cameras in the room. There are four in each corner, the only other color in the room black due to their presence. They’re almost menacing, watching always. Bruce throws Batarangs at each of them in quick succession. Joker gasps rather loudly. Bruce doesn’t flinch at the action; he doesn’t flinch when the alarms begin to sound off either. They’re late or rather they _should_ be. The first cameras in the observatory were destroyed yet the alarms did not sound. Bruce isn’t wasting his time to think about such idiocies; Arkham Asylum never runs as it should. The Joker is smiling at him once more, a more disturbing aspect to the grin he bears. It’s a knowing one… a proud one.

 

“I never thought you’d do it, Bats.” The insinuation behind his words drives Bruce to an abysmal low. He narrows his eyes at Joker with nothing but bitter hatred. It only makes Joker’s sinister smile widen.

 

“You’re mistaken, Joker,” says Bruce quietly. He doesn’t bother changing his tone. It will be meaningless within the next few minutes anyway. There is a flicker of confusion on his face. Then, Bruce can see the dread, barely hidden behind the layers of calculated emotion. He wonders what scares him so much; he thinks for a short moment and then, he knows. It almost makes him laugh. He doesn’t, he doesn’t like to encourage Joker.

 

“Then you’re finally here to kill me?” Joker asks. His tone is laced with hopefulness. Bruce would believe that the voice that calls to him is Joe. If he closes his eyes and focuses on the image, maybe he’ll convince himself. Bruce is silent for a moment, thinking of his words. He had planned this out or, rather, had _planned_ to plan this out. He hadn’t and he never thought he really would. These kind of moments are _in_ the moment. The alarms that blare around them are obnoxiously letting Bruce know he is on a timer. He grabs at his belt, grasping _that_ pocket with _that_ serum. Joker’s eyes flicker and shift attention to it. He cocks his head slightly, akin to the way an animal does at a curious sight.

 

“No,” Bruce answers. “I’m here to fix you.”

 

* * *

 

_ It was just like any other night. The sky was dark and littered with gray clouds that rained upon the grayscale buildings in a repetitive and peaceful manner. Bruce surveyed them with the same plainness he always did. He watched the rain from atop the police department building. He was waiting for Gordon to brief him; it had become a habit. It was unneeded and unnecessary but he enjoyed the company that Gordon gave him. He was one of the few cops who was dedicated to his job. He was new on the scene, not a rookie but not the chief either. Bruce admired his skills and perseverance. He was older than Bruce and it wasn’t something that Bruce liked to be conscious of. Whenever he was, he somehow felt inferior. He imagined, when he was younger, becoming a cop like Gordon. But, instead, he took the longer path. He awaited him here in the rain that seemed never-ending. He knew a little bit about what was happening. Rumors around Gotham hinted at a robbery over at the chemical plant on the edge of the city. Bruce wasn’t sure if the GCPD were going to get involved though. It seemed like just the thing they would avoid involving themselves in at all costs. Just then, the door opened with a loud creaking noise and Gordon from behind it. He ran out with a plastic disposable raincoat. He wore a hat, covering his graying ginger hair.  _

 

_ “Batman,” he greeted. Gordon stopped a few feet from him, powering off the Bat Signal with a swift pull.  _

 

_ “Gordon,” said Bruce in a gravelly voice. “Anything on the heist at Ace Chemicals?” Gordon paused for a moment, assessing himself, then nodded hesitantly. “Uh, yes, the plant. Sources gave us intel that leads us to believe it’ll be a smaller job. They're going for some compound found in the crystal stuff the junkies like.” Gordon wipes away at the water and fog on his glasses. “Commissioner doesn’t want to get involved. There’s going to be a big bust on one of Falcone’s warehouses tonight. Takes priority and all that.” He pulled out a package of cigarettes, fumbled one out of the box, and struggled to light it in the heavy downpour. Bruce suppressed the urge to light it for him. He remembered how his father smoked cigars at home and how his mother would often light it for him. He thought of Joe as he did, thinking if he would light his cigarette. He quickly forgets the thought. He was at work and work was work; he could think about indulgences later. “Something on your mind?” Gordon inquired.  _

 

_ “No,” said Bruce. Gordon eyed him strangely.  _

 

_ “Alright,” he spoke. He managed to light the tip of the cigarette and took a deep intake of the smoke. He turned his neck briefly to blow out the rest of the smoke. Bruce watched rather disinterestedly; other things seemed to dominate his thoughts. “Well, according to one of the informants, it should be happening in around twenty minutes or so.” He took another drag and puffed it out smoothly. The smoke billowed and then dissolved in the air.  _

 

_ “Appreciate the lead, I’ll take care of it from here.” Bruce remained ignorant of the look on Gordon’s face. It was less about his words but the way he was visibly distracted. Gordon’s brow was raised, his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. _

 

_ “You got something on your mind, Batman.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. Bruce didn’t flinch. He merely stilled, stuck in place. “You know, I never ask you because I’m guessing you won’t answer but—“ _

 

_ “Jim,” Bruce interrupted. He picked up his cigarette and took one last drag. He blew it out gradually, dropped the cigarette promptly on the ground, and smashed the lit bud with his shoe.  _

 

_ “Yeah I know,” he spoke. “I thought I might try. It’s worth a try at least.” He was rambling, more to himself than Batman. Bruce picked up on this. His tense stance vanished and was replaced with his regular towering pose. It worked for Gordon as he was a few inches shorter than Bruce.  _

 

_ “A year,” Bruce said. Then, he turned and grappled away from the building. It was the first time Gordon had watched him leave. He pondered quietly to himself what a year could entail. Bruce privately hoped that what the year could entail was more of Joe. Bruce wasn’t sure what made him think of him as constantly as he did. He felt rather childish but it’d be worse to ignore it. Bruce arrived at the Batmobile, preventing a minor theft in the way. He got inside and began to drive towards the plant. He acknowledged the feeling as irrational but, he had some sort of bad aura envelope him as he drew nearer. He did ignore this feeling. It had no sense. Whatever was about to happen wouldn’t affect anything. He parked the Batmobile a few yards away from the abandoned plant. It was rumored amongst locals that the plant was dangerous but Bruce never gave much credence to those rumors. He had never been to Ace Chemicals before, only passed it during chases. He inspected the factory from the outside and used a pair of binoculars to watch the back door. Sure enough, within ten minutes, a van arrived. Bruce’s eyes widened when from within the van, a man emerged. He knew that face anywhere; he knew it in the most intimate of ways.  _

 

_ He cursed himself and dropped the binoculars to the ground. The sound alerted the henchmen briefly. Bruce hid behind the bush and took deep breaths. He was not calm. He was tense and uncomfortable. He felt like a child. He had made a callous mistake. Almost on cue, the pain in his backside flared up. It was a reminder, ever constant, of his mistake. He peered over the bush and spotted the other men. They looked around the area for a source but when they couldn’t find any they, they turned back to him. Bruce picked them back up slowly, attempting to block the thought from his mind altogether. He wore a tuxedo, long red cape, and a nervous posture. He held himself like he didn’t want to be there; Bruce wanted to believe that more than anything. One of the men tossed him a red helmet. It appeared like a shiny red bucket, rain pattering against it. Joe held it in both of his hands with intense hesitation. With a little goading from his flank, Joe dawned the mask. Bruce only stared with a mortified expression. Joe stumbled around for a brief moment before one of the henchmen patted his shoulder in a pitiful manner. He tagged along the back, searching around him as if to find someone. When Joe entered last, Bruce rose from his place behind the bush. He approached the plant with a cowering pace. Bruce grappled to an opened window and climbed into the plant though there. The floor creaked heavily beneath him. He heard the scuffling of men searching on the level below him. He quietly approached them, sneaking past men with ease and surveying them until they found the right room where the compound was kept. Napier followed rather like a dog, attending to orders in a skittish way.  _

 

_ Bruce decided to take action. His movements were not as smooth as he’d like them to be; he was still sore. He took out a few of the men in quick succession of each other, altering the rest of the crew. The main man behind the operation, judged by his barking out of orders and general boss demeanor, checked their pulses as Bruce hid in the rafters. From what Bruce could decipher from the rafters, his name had to be Crow. Joe seemed to spot him immediately, stilling at the sight of Batman perching above. He cautiously stepped closer to Crow and pointed slowly to Bruce’s position. Crow’s eyes widened and he pushed Joe away as Bruce dropped down and began to take down all the cronies. The gunfire began to rain in Bruce’s direction. He moved without grace to avoid the bullets, misguiding them with a flick of his cape. He quickly approached the three gunmen and incapacitated each of them. The metal bridging beneath him screeched with his fast footsteps. He could hear Crow speaking to Joe but Bruce tuned it out as he took out the last gunman. Joe was running and Bruce narrowed his eyes, grappling to the metal bridging near him. He landed unceremoniously; Joe halted in place. He was only a few feet away from Bruce, from the Batman. Bruce stood in place waiting for him to talk, to say something. He was not let down. _

 

_ “Oh god, please— I got- I got someone at home— oh Jesus,” he rambled, backing away. Bruce started to walk towards him.  _

 

_ “Where’s home?” Bruce asked. His voice was more intense than usual. He was angry. But, that wouldn’t last long. Joe, in his inconsolable state, could not think to ponder why the Batman would ask that kind of question. _

 

_ “Look, I’m just- just supposed to be your distraction! That- that’s why they h-hired me!” Bruce’s scowl decreased, replaced with a cold realization. _

 

_ “I read your file, you’re no criminal,” he spoke. This wasn’t untrue, he did do a background check on him. But, he hadn’t before he had come over that night. Joe’s body seemed to maintain a tremor. He continued to back away. “Why are you here?”  _

 

_ “I-I needed money— oh god, please, just don’t hurt me.” Bruce retracted his anger completely. He thought of how his show had gone the day they met at the nightclub. He thought of the clothes on his back and the solemn outlook he had. He needed money but, he had never asked Bruce for it. He hadn’t asked him because he didn’t want to. Bruce’s body seemed to loosen.  _

 

_ “I’m not going to hurt you,” said Bruce.  _

 

_ "I won't do it- it a-again!"  Joe said. "I just w-want to go home!" He could hear the tremor of a sob in his voice. _

 

_ _ ____________"Where's home?" Bruce demanded. Joe, startled by the question, stood still._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

_ _ _____________ ____________"W-What?" he asked. Bruce blinked slowly, regretting the choice to come here tonight. "I- You- you won't believe me if I tell you." That answer was enough to satisfy Bruce._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

______________"Wayne Manor," he spoke. Joe's face contorted into a variety of expressions, mainly shock and fear._____________ The tension went unrelieved. He stepped closer to Joe but he seemed to step away from Bruce; it hurt more than it should have. “I’m not taking you in.” His tone lacked the gravelly quality it usually had. It was intentional. But it went unheard as Joe wasn’t listening. He was trying to pull off his mask. His cape, which was attached to it, snuck beneath his shoes. As he pulled off the mask, he lost his balance. To the left side of him, Bruce spotted the vat of chemical waste. It was bubbling still, despite the factory being abandoned; whatever was in the stuff was what the crew were truly looking for. He eyed Crow in the control panel, filing out of it with his men as soon as they made eye contact. Joe was stumbling towards the flimsy railing and Bruce’s eyes widened. “Joe!” Bruce yelled. He ran to him, ignoring the soreness. His body tipped over the railing. Bruce didn’t catch his hand and Joe disappeared within the green acid. Bruce watched in horror, as the only connection Bruce had formed in a very long time, was destroyed. _

 

* * *

 

“Fix me, Bats?” Joker spits. It’s all malice and Bruce expects nothing less. Bruce walks towards him, a stony emotion present on the few features the mask shows. He doesn’t like the way the Joker thinks he can get out of this. He doesn’t like how the disease thinks it can still go on. He doesn’t like how the acid chemicals running through his blood think they can control him. “There’s nothing to fix.” He closes in on Joker with little resistance at first. It is only when he grabs at the pocket with the serum that Joker seems to sense something is amiss. He tenses against Bruce’s hands as he holds him in place. He struggles against it, squirming as violently as he can in the straight jacket. “I’m perfect just the way I am. I’m rather insulted that you think—“

 

“You’re not  _ him _ ,” says Bruce quickly. Joker quirks up his eyebrows. It’s fearful, Bruce can tell from his increased heart rate. He doesn’t like those words and doesn’t wait to let Bruce know that, pushing out of Bruce’s grip with a kick to the back of his calf. He skittishly backs up into a corner with his feet alone. Bruce doesn’t speak, the sirens blaring now more than ever. 

 

“Oh?" he exclaims. "What does that mean?” Joker questions. “You’re trying to scare me, aren’t you?” It’s meant to be reassuring to himself. But, Bruce knows it isn’t working for him. His ghostly eyes are wide, a nervous kind of smile spreading across his features. Bruce doesn’t respond to these questions. He just stands in place, removing his hand from the belt pocket. Bruce stares at him, mentally comparing him to a scared animal. “What do you got in that belt of yours, huh?” Joker asks. Bruce has no intention of answering any of his questions anymore; it will only prolong the process.

 

“Do you remember, before the fall?” Bruce asks. Joker fills the room with echoing laughter. The kind that kids speak of at night around campfires. It’s the kind that Bruce hates. It’s the furthest from  _ his  _ laughter that Bruce knows. It’s the most foreign. But, it means he is no longer tense.

 

“Which one?” Joker asks. Bruce narrows his eyes at him, a tendril of fury flaming in his gut. This fury has held Bruce captive; whenever he leaves the Joker in pieces, broken and incoherent at the steps of Arkham, that fury has held him for too long. He doesn’t enjoy hurting him, he never has. It is a part of the job description. He has to hurt him to show that he wants him in Arkham. To show that he isn’t personally involved. That he is detached. It never worked for him then and it certainly isn’t working now. “Over the GCPD? Maybe the time I tried to poison the water! Or that one time in Metropolis—“

 

“Ace Chemicals,” Bruce clarifies. “The first time.” Joker stands back up, eyes glimmering. He thinks he has control. Bruce knows better. His smile stretches against his white skin like a bloody wound. 

 

“Sentimental, are we?” Joker speaks. “I didn’t think you were the type—“ Bruce is becoming annoyed at the exchange. He isn’t connecting the pieces; he’s playing with Bruce because he doesn’t like or want confrontation. It means he knows something that he doesn’t want Bruce to know. It’s a frustrating aspect to their dialogue that Bruce has become accustomed to. 

 

“Do you remember anything before you fell?” He doesn’t mean to let the desperation out. Joker pouts and walks towards Bruce. He begins to circle him. He’s trying to intimidate Bruce but it never works. His tactics rarely ever result in success. He’s smiling but it’s mirthless. 

 

“Who is it you think is hidden, Batsy?” he asks.  “Do you think that once you give me some potion that I will change? That’s never worked before and it isn’t going to now,” says Joker. “Whoever you’re looking for has been gone for a long time... the question that is really worth asking is why are you looking for him.” He stops, shoulder to shoulder with Bruce. Bruce refuses to look at him, to acknowledge his manipulation. “So, why are you looking for him?” Bruce remains quiet, focusing on his breathing and patience. He needs to know what he’s hiding; he needs to know if the effort is worthless. “Silence, Bats? You really are broody today! I guess… this means you knew him?” Bruce resists the tremor that seeks to break Bruce’s stony exterior. He places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, leaning close to his ear. Bruce ghosts the belt, gradually unlatching the pocket. “But what did he do to you, huh?” He taps his fingers against the shoulder plating. “You seem so… heartbroken.” He raises his smile in a suggestive way. Bruce grasps the syringe. “Perhaps, he was your coworker, your employee, your bully, your friend...” He smiles at that last word, finding the sweet spot of manipulation he so enjoys. Bruce takes control of the situation; he stabs the needle into his leg and injects the serum in quick succession. Joker stumbles and falls against the padded floor. The sirens blare and Bruce scans the room. He can only assume the observation room is full of doctors, soon to be Gordon. Joker is looking at him, with half-lidded eyes. 

 

“He wasn’t my friend,” Bruce speaks quietly. Joker’s eyes seem to blink in a dizzy confusion. He doesn’t add to that. He doesn’t need to. Bruce turns his head to the opening door. Gordon is pushing past concerned doctors and the door closes behind him. 

 

“Batman, what are you doing?” asks Gordon. Bruce turns his head back to the Joker. He leans down to him and plucks out the syringe. Gordon’s face is too kind and forgiving for Bruce’s liking. “What did you inject him with?” Bruce keeps attending to Joker’s limp body, his eyes closed and sweat beading at his forehead. Then, the _changes_ begin. Bruce stands up immediately, his posture straight and fixed. Gordon notices it too, mouth gaping open in disbelief. Bruce finds his body backing away from Joker. The shock makes the room ever so silent, uncomfortably so. “Jesus, what the hell was in that?” He grabs the syringe away from Bruce and Bruce allows him. He finds himself distracted by his skin. The melanin returns to Joker’s skin, tanning it like  _ normal  _ skin. Gordon looks up to see the change, his eyes straining in the very well lit room. “Batman,” Gordon whispers. “What have you done?”  Bruce can’t answer that. He can think of no explanation that paints him innocent. Nothing makes him feel guiltless. But, if it works as the other Batman told him it would, then maybe his guilt wouldn’t matter. Maybe the fall could be forgotten or forgiven. Maybe both. He examines the syringe in a violent confusion, looking it over for any trace of anything. He waits as Joker’s hair grows dark colored roots. Gordon remains by Bruce’s side, in part shock and part horror. His lips fade into a regular light pink pigmentation. Bruce can even see the  _ damn  _ beauty marks returning to his skin. He approaches him quickly, picking him up by the chin and inspecting his face for anything out of place. He is amazed to find that nothing seems to be amiss. Gordon stares at him with too many questions to voice. “What’s happening to him?”

 

“Change,” Bruce answers. His gravelly voice almost cracks at the one word. Bruce doesn’t think much of it. He doesn’t need to speak to him. Gordon is quiet behind him, stunned to silence. He has very little to say, other than questions. But, even those questions, marked with the obvious non-answers that he has come to expect from Batman, don’t quite fit the dumbfounded state he occupies the space in. He doesn’t know how to react. There isn’t anything Gordon finds surprising anymore. Gotham has taught him this. But, despite all of the horrendous crime scenes and horror stories, Gordon is surprised at this. His mind seems to be going at the speed of light. He doesn’t want to ask the next question. It isn’t something he enjoys but, he had watched the Joker taunt Batman. He has never truly seen anyone–– anything get under his skin before. But, it had seemed that his dialogue pulled at the right strings. So, Gordon thinks aloud.

 

“Why?” asks Gordon. Bruce doesn’t answer. “Who was he?” He stays silent, checking his pulse. Gordon keeps the bubbling irritation under wraps. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew who he was––“

 

“It wouldn’t matter,” he finally responds. Gordon sighs loudly, echoing in the quiet of the room. He turns his body, removes his glasses, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels exhausted with the day, with the night; breaks never really come. “It never has.” The implication frustrates Gordon. 

 

“Yes, it does… goddamn it.” He replaces his glasses, struggling to find the words to comprehend the situation at hand. In front of him is a recovering  _ man _ who no longer even resembles the  _ monster  _ that once was in the exact same place. The jarring quality of it all strikes him and he closes his eyes and raises his head to the ceiling, muttering silent prayers. His eyes open to find the destroyed cameras, the reason he was called in the first place. He thinks and then quietly makes a decision. When he lowers his head, he looks towards the glass with a little resistance. He walks towards them and motions for them to leave. He opens the door with a key card obtained from one of the nurses. He finds all of the doctors and nurses remain in the observation room. “Get out, this is police business.” They all slowly shuffle out of the observation room and into the hallway, each with unique expressions of shock plastered against their faces. One nurse, a man in his late thirties seems rather occupied with staring at the scene. “Hey, did I stutter?” The man turns to him and nods slowly, exiting last. Gordon closes the door on all of them. He turns back to the confinement cell to find Batman hovering over Joker’s body. He walks towards him slowly. He pauses when inside the room, staring at his back. “This is personal for you, I get it,” starts Gordon. Bruce pulls off his right glove and places his hand against his forehead. “But I need to have a reason to keep silent about this.” There is a pleading in Gordon’s voice. Bruce hears it and it only makes him cringe. Gordon has never been a dirty cop or really even a liar. His heart is good and, when it comes to Batman, he is too forgiving. Here, he stands, about to break his morals and code just because he wants to keep Batman safe. To keep the image safe. To keep Gotham safe. Bruce understands it and he feels sorry for Gordon. 

 

“You don’t need to do that,” says Bruce. “They should know the truth, whatever it may be.” Gordon snorts behind him, astounded. 

 

“We both know that’ll never happen,” Gordon replies. His tone is weak by the next time he speaks. “But, I need to know what is going to happen here. For better or worse.” Bruce closes his eyes as he sits in front of Joker’s body. Gordon stands in place, a few feet away, and glares holes into his back. There had always been an unspoken promise between them, one that Gordon had acknowledged from the very beginning. It had expanded after a year Joker had arrived. They would know each other’s plans, regardless of the importance of the situation at hand. Most times, this involved the thwarting of villains. But, now, it means something else entirely. It means the end and Bruce doesn’t like endings. They make never-ending frivolous. In order to find something to bring  _ him  _ back, things had to be never-ending. Without that, without time indefinitely, Bruce would have never built the machine. He would have never thought it out. He would have never gotten the serum or injected Joker with it. All these choices Bruce could have never made, all the choices he _has_ made. They all brought him here. An ending to this moment feels wrong. An ending to Gordon and their friendship isn’t inevitable. It’s just another choice that Bruce has yet to decide. Bruce doesn’t move from his place by Joker. 

 

“It’s a cure… ideally, it makes him normal,” Bruce starts. Gordon is quiet, listening patiently as Bruce continues. “He’ll remember everything he’s done but he’ll know it was someone else. Not him.” 

 

“And who is he?” questions Gordon. “Someone you knew?” Bruce’s throat feels dry. He doesn’t want to keep this all up anymore. It Is rather pointless if the serum works like it's supposed to. But, he figures it hasn’t been proven so another white lie will suffice until then. 

 

“Joe Napier. Any person you see on the streets, trying to get by,” answers Bruce. “He’s what we were supposed to protect.”

 

“He can’t be  _ normal _ , Batman,” Gordon says. “He’s never getting out of here. Not if any of Gotham has anything to say about it.” Bruce takes a sharp intake of air, his sinuses flaring. The room smells like some disgusting sweet window cleaner, the kind that children would mistake for soda. He breathes it in and he stares at  _ his  _ body. He feels like drinking this cleaner. At least it’d be sweet.

 

“Who said they would know?” Bruce whispers into the room. It doesn’t go unheard. Gordon is silent though, doing the opposite of breathing. “One day, the Joker disappeared and never came back. Sounds like a good story, doesn’t it?” Gordon’s blood runs very cold. He knew that something wasn’t right when he arrived here. He knew that whatever would happen would be scandalous. He had that feeling, but he didn’t know this would happen. He hadn’t anticipated this in any way, shape, or form. He knows now, and only now, that Gotham’s protector will not return as he has before. That his words of protection would protect the disappearance of one of the most prolific criminals in history. He feels quiet corrupt him and silence him. He isn't sure what to say, not anymore.

 

_ His _ hand moves against the white floor.  _ His _ head tilts slightly, stirring from his coma-like state. Both Bruce and Gordon’s eyes latch onto his waking form. His eyelids flicker open, revealing hazel irises. He searches around and he lands his focus on Bruce. He blinks in confusion, spotting Gordon approaching from behind. Bruce knows those eyes. He knows their color. He never stops thinking about them. He never saw anything like them, since or now. Bruce had debated with himself over the years about this. About what to say to him. About what to tell him. He wants him to understand. He wants him to forgive him. He wants him to be in love with him, like he has always been with Joe. But he knows nothing is that easy. Everything takes time. In the end, all that matters is what he wants. Bruce will listen to whatever that may be, whether it’s in his own self-interest or not. Alfred had told him, a long time ago, before he had left Bruce and his _responsibility_ , that love was not a choice. Bruce, at the time, wasn’t really sure what that meant. Now, he knew exactly what it meant. He doesn’t seem afraid of Bruce; he is more concentrated on readjusting himself to his surroundings, maybe being  _ present _ in general. Bruce isn’t sure which. He doesn’t pry or attempt to interact with him just yet. He seems timid and statuesque. Bruce awaits what  _ he  _ had to say; it takes a few more quiet minutes for him to seem coherent. His eyes are open wide now, staring at Gordon. His focus shifts back to Bruce, with nothing but malice. It hurts, just as much as Bruce expects it to.

 

“W-Where is– is Bruce?” asks Joe. Bruce stills in place, something that Gordon notices immediately. 

 

“Who’s Bruce?” Gordon asks. The question is clearly directed at Bruce but he remains quiet. He’s captured once more in the soft glow that is Joe Napier. He had been so unsure of himself over the years, the reason behind all of his actions becoming more and more faint as time passed. But now, Bruce could see why it had been worth it all along. It returns to him naturally, just as it had begun. The rational part of Bruce is screaming to question him, to do anything to confirm that this is really  _ him _ . Another part of Bruce, the smaller and the weaker, tells him that what he just said is enough. Both tell him that after this moment, everything is over. Joe is staring at him, seemingly terrified in the room. He longs to relieve him of this discomfort. Anything he could do. Anything.

 

“Check the door,” says Bruce. Gordon stares at him oddly before following his commands. 

 

“No one’s here, why do you––“ Gordon is silent. There’s a reason. Batman has removed his cowl. Gordon doesn’t want to look. To look at the man rather than the force he always sees is alarming; he had imagined this day. But, in those dreams, he always saw a bat even beneath the mask. It’s surreal to see black hair emerge from beneath the cowl. It’s surreal to see the back of his neck. He isn’t covering his eyes, but he feels the insatiable urge to turn around. It’s childish but he also knows that no one will stop him. He thinks for a moment, connecting dots and the like. His name is Bruce and his hair is black. The answer is rather obvious and the conclusion makes a lot of sense. Yet, Gordon is still in disbelief. The question that comes to him most is why. Why is Bruce Wayne under the cowl? It’s a hard thing for him to comprehend. He’s met the man a few occasions for security purposes at galas and he seemed rather pompous. Neither intelligent or someone Gordon would remember. Perhaps that made him so easily unassociated. No one would guess. Bruce doesn’t turn to meet Gordon’s eye. He is compromised as it is. He has suspected Gordon understands what is happening right now and, even if he doesn’t understand why, it’s clear that he knows what is going to happen here. In front of him, Joe’s eyes search Bruce’s face. He’s in as much shock as Bruce would expect him to be. Bruce longs to fall into Joe’s chest and hold him. But, he refrains. Instead, he stares at him with an overwhelmingly large sense of urgency. He isn’t sure he can calm him here. Nothing will calm him  _ here. _

 

“You’re  _ him _ ,” he says. He’s mostly speaking to himself. “Y-you’ve been… oh my god.” He breaks eye contact with Bruce, looking at the ground in a panicked state. Bruce knows what he means; all this time Bruce has been chasing him. All these years of his life and all the scars that mark memories on both of their skin. It’s overwhelming to ponder, Bruce knows this most of all. In an act purely to make him feel more comfortable, Bruce cuts the sleeves and Joe moves around his arms freely. He looks at Bruce with a heightened type of confusion. Bruce pulls off his other glove and leans toward him. He doesn’t flinch like Bruce would assume. He looks back up at Bruce from the floor. “Why?” Joe asks. “Why, after everything that— that has happened, do you want to save me?” Bruce can feel his face grow hot, his eyes beginning to water. Gordon looks around him, self-preservation dominating his mind.

 

“Because I let you fall,” says Bruce quietly. “I didn’t catch you—“ 

 

“Where did you get the serum? How do you even know that’s not just Joker playing with you?” Gordon interrupts. There is a tinge of bitterness in his voice. He doesn’t like his words; the truth is that he could be right. It wouldn’t be the first time the Joker had pulled such stunts. Joe looks at Gordon, who seems to grow closer to them gradually. He stands in a strange hovering motion over Bruce, keeping his eye line strictly on his below his shoulders as to not catch a glimpse. Bruce closes his eyes and Joe reaches his fingertips to touch Bruce’s. He shivers but doesn’t pull away. He opens his eyes to exchange a look with Joe. 

 

“Test me,” Joe speaks. “Something only I’d know.” He sounds somber yet hopeful. His eyes, which ensnare Bruce so effortlessly, are searching for something Bruce hasn’t known for a long time. He is searching for love. Bruce, for all of his time awaiting this moment, had never been disloyal to him; unlike most of his decisions, this one was not by choice or lack of trying. A woman on the streets had once intrigued him, with short hair and a snappy charisma. But she had known that he could not give her what she wanted. She wanted love and Bruce could not supply. But there was something else too. He knew the feeling Joe had given him would never be emulated. He knew that that feeling, of absolute connection and understanding, would never be attained again. Joe is asking for this feeling, the only person who ever really could, and Bruce doesn’t need to think to let him know. He acknowledges it with a soft and somber smile. Joe looks up at Gordon who glares at him and he quickly looks away from him, Joe's smile fading. Bruce thinks about a question, something that the Joker would not know. There are many intimate details he could ask but Gordon seems to stick to the room like glue; Bruce doesn’t intend to expose either of them in that way. He thinks of words, words that he has never spoken to anyone else. Something not just anyone would remember, but maybe… just maybe, he would. Bruce thinks about Arkham and Wayne Manor and then he settles for the obvious.

 

“What are Gargoyles?” asks Bruce. There is desperation in his voice. His eyes are pleading and waiting, his breathing halts. Gordon senses the tension in the room, narrowing his eyes on Joe like a viper, ready to strike at any moment. Bruce sees this in his peripheral and chooses to ignore it. He is a position to prevent anything that might hurt  _ him _ . Joe stares at Bruce with a faint smile returning to his face. 

 

“Angels,” says Joe softly. “They’re our angels.” Bruce can feel the tear fall across his face, hot and blurring. It is tinged with gray as it passes the large circles of eyeliner. He lets it fall and wipes away the residue it leaves many stunned moments later. Bruce smiles, for the first time in many _ many _ years. Bruce takes Joe’s fingers in his own and squeezes his hand. He stands, pulling Joe to his feet. With the other hand, he pulls his cowl back down and faces Gordon. He isn’t sure he has made his choice yet regarding him. He is looks drained, all the understanding sapped from him. His eyes are tired and his posture is static and straight. He is trying too hard to appear judgmental. The false malice doesn’t work for him. Bruce can spot it straight away, even If Joe cannot. He has known Gordon for a while, and that is the defining difference. Overall, Gordon looks scared. Bruce never met Gordon, not the real Bruce anyway. It is only in the direst of circumstances that he ever would. But, Gordon didn’t know that this was what that had meant. Over the years, Gordon had obtained a caring for the Batman; he didn’t quite understand where it had come from. Perhaps it had been the absence of his wife and children. Perhaps it had been the absence of anyone in his life that had been there before. He grew to care for someone he never really knew. It feels too close to betrayal. But, even as he stands here and faces the demise of the image he held so dear, he still sees what had always been. A broken figure, dark and towering, only this time with  _ hope _ . Gordon remembers what it was like to have hope. He has no intention of taking that away from him. 

 

“Watch the door,” speaks Bruce. Gordon pauses, blinks, and slowly nods. “A year,” Bruce says. Gordon’s lips part slightly. Bruce nods back at him, an act of finality that strikes him harder than he expects it to. Gordon exits through the cell and walks without looking back. Bruce looks after him somberly and then turns back to Joe. He begins to throw sticky explosives to the ceiling; Joe looks on in awe. When he’s finished he goes back to Joe and walks with him to the observation room. Bruce presses the activator, a red button, and watches the ceiling explode with worry. The sirens resound as soon as the rubble falls. When it’s done, Bruce runs into the room as quickly as he can, Joe tagging along. “You’re going to need to hold onto me.” He pulls his arm around Joe’s waist and Joe responds with holding onto Bruce’s neck with both hands. Bruce raises his grapple hook and grapples to the floor above. His history with Arkham and its renovations are very public but for good reason. Bruce Wayne needs to donate to charities. Arkham Asylum has always been a charity.  This is how he knows about the room above being unoccupied. It’s an empty storage room. Once he lands with Joe, they walk towards a large window. The glass is broken and the lock seems damaged. Bruce doesn’t take note of why this is, he already knows. He kicks out the rest of the lingering pane and wood, offering Joe a hand. He takes it without hesitation and, together, they descend the building rapidly. Bruce and Joe get in the Batmobile with ease as doctors and security frantically search around the premises. Bruce drives out of Arkham quickly, passing the gargoyles with a faint smile. The drive is long, filled with anxious silence and tension. When they arrive in the cave, Joe breaks the silence and is quick to ask Bruce every kind of question. The cave almost acts as a set to the intensity their conversation demands.

 

“Bruce,” Joe says. “You’ve told me you did this — you kept me around — because you let me fall... but that isn’t true, is it?” There is something suggestive in his phrasing and his tone, as if pleading to agree with him. “D-do you love me?” He stumbles over his words, an endearing quality Bruce cannot seem to get enough of. He smiles and Joe smiles back. 

 

“Yes, I do.” Joe nods quietly, his smile becoming more uncontainable and infectious. Bruce watches in awe, thanking the dimensions of hard work that got him here. “But do you love me?” Bruce asks. Joe raises an eyebrow. “That is all that matters,” Bruce adds. Joe runs a nervous hand through his hair, looking at the stone flooring.

 

“Well, I thought I’d already said it before,” answers Joe. “You’re special, there is no one quite like you.” Joe looks back to him, parting a piece of Bruce’s dark damp hair from his eyes. “Thank you for saving me.” He leans up and kisses him slowly, with gentle eyes. His eyes capture Bruce, once and for all of time. The cave is quiet, the sound of running water and the flow of cool air from it creating a comfortable atmosphere. Outside, the rain pours and subtlety bounces up against the more harder surfaces. It is calm in at Wayne Manor, for the Asylum is tucked far away. It is calm within the manor, for the first time in a  _ very _ long time. Peace inhabits the walls and the angels, who had watched the pain and torment fester for decades, now seem to rest. They no longer watch Bruce Wayne with menace. Instead, they watch with curiosity and delight to see the cold dark warm with the return of Joe Napier. They had feared he would never return. Their fears now vanquished, and their rest now eternal, the gargoyles smile. The rain patters against the windowsills and the stone stay unmoving. Just as it had been when Martha and Thomas had come home with Bruce, they stand on top of the hill and guard. It is quiet, it is peaceful, it is calm.

 

        When the Bat returns to Gotham, he is not alone.

 


End file.
